


Close Call

by conceptofzero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4098037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quarters' not even really sure what the fuck they’re doing here. Crowbar said a bunch of shit Quarters didn’t pay attention to. Quarters just knows to mow down any non-green non-Snowman shape he sees and that’s exactly what he does. It’s the best part of his job. The worst part is what happens after when Crowbar counts up everything and he’s stuck waiting for them to fucking leave already.</p><p>When it’s all over and Itchy doesn’t pop up immediately to hassle him, Quarters doesn’t think much about it. Maybe he should have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Call

Quarters is used to losing sight of Itchy in the middle of a fight. He zips everywhere, darting from the safe areas the Felt’s controlling into enemy territory and back, while Quarters levels his mini-gun at whoever’s in his way and mows them down, moving at a slow but steady pace. The only time that ever changes is when he’s called in by Crowbar and told to flip a coin to bring somebody in or to swap someone out. Nobody bothers flipping to bring Itchy in on purpose, not when he’s just as easy to call in. 

He’s not even really sure what the fuck they’re doing here. Crowbar said a bunch of shit Quarters didn’t pay attention to. Quarters just knows to mow down any non-green non-Snowman shape he sees and that’s exactly what he does. It’s the best part of his job. The worst part is what happens after when Crowbar counts up everything and he’s stuck waiting for them to fucking leave already.

When it’s all over and Itchy doesn’t pop up immediately to hassle him, Quarters doesn’t think much about it. He’s busy packing up his minigun and getting blood off his shoes. When his walkie starts squawking, he shrugs it off, letting Crowbar do his usual bossy bullshit as he starts yelling orders and flipping out over nothing. 

He only pays attention at the end, when Crowbar finished off his orders with, “-and Itchy’s finally stopped bleeding out, so we can start moving him.” 

Quarters grabs the walkie and mashes the call button down. “What the fuck happened to Itchy?” 

Trace answers back, sounding woozy. “We walked right into an ambush. He got shot a bunch of times. I did too-” 

He doesn’t care about Trace and his fucking whining. Quarters shuts the radio off and goes running in the direction of the car. When he gets there, he can see there’s a huge fucking mess everywhere, blood on the ground and dead fuckers lying right out in the open and shell casing everywhere. Itchy’s there too, his clothes all covered in blood, and Quarters can see the stitches on him where he’s been sewn up. It’s an awful fucking amount of injuries for anyone. There’s blood on his face and it looks like he got hit with more than just bullets because there’s a shiner already starting over his left eye. Itchy looks like death warmed over but he still raises his hand and gives Quarters a wave as they load him into the hot rod. 

“Catch the next one!” Fin yells as he starts the engine and gets rolling, the seats filled with Itchy, Trace (with a few bullet holes in him too, nothing serious, nothing work freaking out over), Die (covered in blood and twitching) and a fucked up looking Matchsticks. Quarters could run down the car easy and stop it, because Itchy’s a fucking idiot and someone needs to yell at him for being a moron, but he doesn’t. He just stands there and watches it drive off with Itchy slumped in the back seat, his hand still in the air like he’s forgotten what he was doing when he put it up there. 

He doesn’t just catch the next one - he yanks Crowbar out of the driver’s seat and gets in. The only reason he doesn’t take off right away is because Crowbar hooks his crowbar on the steering wheel and yanks it to the side, giving Quarters a look that says he’ll raise hell if Quarters pulls anything. So he’s stuck waiting for the rest of the assholes to load into the van, and it takes for fucking ever to get out of there. 

On the drive back to the mansion, everybody ignores Quarters, except Crowbar, who looks over at him for an uncomfortably long period of time before starting to say something like, “I know you’re worried-” Quarters barks out a, “Shut the fuck up” before Crowbar can start projecting his own fucked up insecurities all over Quarters. He’s not fucking worried. He’s pissed off that he’s got to wait on all these assholes instead of being back at the Mansion already so he can know if things are okay or not. If they’d just let him take the van, he’d be back by now. Instead, he’s stuck listening to the others bellyache about shit that doesn’t matter. Every titter from Clover, every grumble from Sawbuck, fills him with absolute rage, and he ends up turning the radio on and drowns everyone out with the loudest thing he can find. 

When they finally get back, he parks as close to the house as he can and gets out of the van immediately, ignoring Crowbar as he starts yelling at Quarters to help. He storms into the house and heads for Stitch’s boutique, shoving the door open and looking around. 

Die shrieks when Quarters barges in and Stitch huffs, still working on Matchsticks. “Unless your guts are coming out, take a seat.”

“Where the fuck’s Itchy?” He snaps, beak making a crisp noise as it clamps together. Quarters sees Stitch roll his eyes and he knows if that fucking grommet says something, then nobody can hold him responsible if he chooses to smack him.

“He’s in his room.” Stitch says instead, choosing the answer that will get Quarters out of there fastest. Quarters is more than fine with that and he quickly turns around, leaving the boutique. He can still hear them talking, Stitch sighing loudly, “Die, get the door.” 

“Why do I have to-” Die starts bitching but it quickly fades as Quarters makes his way upstairs. He usually doesn’t go into Itchy’s room but he knows how to find it. It’s awful the way he feels something inside of him tighten up as he strides down the hall, but he shoves it all out of his mind, focusing only on the facts. He gets Itchy’s door open, practically throwing it against the wall, and he stops dead when he finally sees what he’s been looking for since the car drove away. 

Itchy’s got his shirt off and now that it’s not in the way, he can really see where the seven bullets tore him up. Stitch must have worked like a demon to get Itchy back together in time. Quarters stands in the doorway and stares as Itchy sits on the bed, who’s picking at his stitches. “Are you coming in or are you just going to stay there and glare at me all night?” 

Quarters says nothing. After a long, tense silence, he steps in and slams the door behind him. All he can feel is an overwhelming urge to shake Itchy or hit him or just- just do anything physical until he gets his through his fucking thick idiot skull that he needs to be smarter about this shit. But when he reaches Itchy, crossing the space between them in less than four steps, he finds that he can’t hurt him.

All he wants to do is hold onto him, grip his shoulders and pull him close and just glower furiously down at him. He can’t even make himself squeeze too tight; he might break Itchy’s shoulders. He was already almost killed tonight. All those patched up wounds on him are proof of it. If the tailor had been a little slower, he wouldn’t be in Itchy’s room. He’d be standing over Itchy’s body, watching it go cold. 

“... soooo… anytime you want to start yelling, y’know, fucking let ‘er rip.” Itchy suggests, smiling up at Quarters despite the black eye and the fresh scar along the corner of his lip. “I’d start by calling me a fuck-up and then go on to-” 

He shuts Itchy up, kissing him hard. It’s not the smartest move maybe, not when his beak’s as sharp as it is, but it’s better than listening to Itchy tell Quarters how he should be scolding him. It’s easy to shove him back onto the bed and just pin him down, keeping Itchy where he can’t get away and get into more trouble. He still smells like blood and gunpowder, and Itchy squirms underneath Quarters, rutting up against him.

They don’t usually kiss a whole lot. Itchy likes to run his mouth, or to have his mouth full of dick, or to try do both at the same time because he gets hard when he’s choking. Quarters doesn’t let him do either, not this time. He doesn’t want to hear jokes about dying or any of the other usual shit Itchy would spout. What he wants is just to keep Itchy close so he can’t get hurt again. 

Itchy’s not complaining about it. He seems pretty into it actually, both his arms reaching up to wrap around Quarters’ neck and hold on tight as he kisses back. Quarters knows he’s probably going to end up slicing that scar back open. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care. Quarters just keeps on kissing Itchy, making sure he never forgets the way he tastes because the next time there’s a rumble, he might not come back and he’ll be so fucking furious with himself for not remembering what Itchy tastes like. 

He tries to shut up that stupid fucking voice in the back of his mind talking about next times and that kind of bullshit. Now is the only thing that matters. He’s got both hands on Itchy and they’re not going anywhere. Itchy’s here, lying in his tiny fucking bed, and it’s so fucking small;he should pick him up and move him to Quarters room, which has a bigger, better fucking bed and it’s safer. So he does that, both hands under Itchy as he gets up and yanks him up. The kissing breaks for a moment and Itchy holds onto Quarters’ neck, laughing a little. “Fuck, what’s up big guy? You wanna fuck against the wall? We might need to actually put a pin in that one, or I’ll tear more than my asshole.” 

“Shut up,” he grumbles and carts Itchy out of his bedroom. He storms up the stairs like a thundercloud, ignoring the looks he gets from Doze and Crowbar as he passes by, tuning out the way Crowbar shouts at him that Itchy’s injured, and straight up ignoring the way Doze mumbles something about how Quarters should wait instead of getting rough with Itchy right away. It’s not about that. If they can’t see that, it’s their stupid fucking problem. They’re the idiots who don’t know who Quarters is. 

When they reach his room, he slams the door behind himself and locks it, keeping Itchy pressed up against him the whole time. Usually, he’d just drop Itchy on the bed like a sack of potatoes, maybe laugh when he falls out. For now, he sets Itchy down careful. He’s not a fucking idiot. He knows if the stitches tear, then they have to go see Stitch, and he doesn’t want Itchy leaving his room, or his sight, for the rest of the night. 

“So uh, you want a handy or something? C’mon, speak up, tell me what you want. The quiet and creepy look is uh, y’know, it’s not your thing.” Itchy keeps trying to coax Quarters into speaking but it just makes him quieter. The longer it goes on, the more Itchy’s smile starts to crack. He doesn’t want to say anything, in case Itchy figures out what’s going on and starts laughing about it - or worse, if he figures it out and he doesn’t laugh about it. That would be the worst thing. That would be fucking humiliating. Itchy keeps looking at him, even as Quarters crawls back over top him. “Hey man, just throw me a bone, what’s this all about?” 

Quarters kisses him again, harder this time. He knows he’s cut the side of Itchy’s mouth up because he can taste fresh blood, and it doesn’t matter. Itchy still kisses back and Quarters just keeps Itchy underneath him, feeling how he wiggles against Quarters. He’s gotten hard. Half of his blood’s lying on the floor of that fucking warehouse and he’s still able to get hard. This disgusting pervert. Quarters nearly lost him. 

That’s fucking him up in ways he doesn’t want to think about, so he doesn’t. He just raises his body enough to get working on Itchy’s pants, yanking them open and off, throwing them across his room. He starts on his own things next, not bothering to take his mouth off Itchy as he yanks his jacket off and lets his shirt follow, starting on his pants before his undershirt, since if he touches his undershirt, he’ll have to stop kissing Itchy. He refuses to stop putting their mouths together, refuses to let himself forget the way he fucking tastes and smells and feels right now. Quarters shuts all those memories away inside of him so he can pull them out later if he has to (and let him never have to, let him die first so he doesn’t have to be so fucking pathetic). 

They do finally break apart when Quarters has nothing but his undershirt left, and while he strips it off, Itchy squirms close to the bedside table. There’s lube in there and he digs it out, trying to flip himself over. But Quarters stops him and takes the bottle from Itchy, keeping him on his back as he gets his fingers wet. Itchy just looks up at him, his brow all furrows. “Quarters, what the fuck? Did you damage your brain or something?”

“I’m fine, asshole.” He snipes back and puts his dry hand on Itchy’s leg, pushing him back so his ass is tilted up. Quarters works one finger in, watching closely as Itchy’s breathing picks up and his face gets red. He’s careful to look at the stitches too and to make sure they’re still holding. They are, so he works a second finger in, getting both up to the knuckle. He works them in and out and tries not to think about what he’d do if Itchy died. 

“You’re being f-fucking weird,” Itchy moans out and his dick twitches as Quarters gets his fingers to spread apart and get Itchy wet and wide, ready for Quarters’ dick. His eyes are sharp as they look up at Quarters and he keeps pushing, keeps asking questions. “C’mon, what’s the problem? You freaked out about the shooting? I’m fine. I got a few new holes sure, but Stitch put me together real good-” 

He can’t stand to hear Itchy talk. It’s worse than not talking. Easier to just kiss him again until he shuts up. Quarters drags his fingers out of Itchy and shoves his cock in, maybe rougher than he should. But it’s okay. Once he’s in, he takes it slow. 

He needs to remember it all. Fuck, he needs to remember everything, in case, just in case. Quarters keeps Itchy underneath him, fucking him face to face so he can keep him quiet with his mouth. 

They usually don’t do it like this. Not that he’s got a problem with fucking face to face, but it’s not what he likes best. Itchy prefers getting fucked when he’s bent over something, or when he’s face down. Or else sometimes, when he’s being a real shit, Itchy likes sitting in Quarters’ lap, facing away from him so they can both watch something else while he’s getting fucked. It’s not the usual thing for them to be looking at each other, or gazing into each other’s eyes like fucking saps while doing it. It’s weird. It’s… fuck, it’s weird, he doesn’t want to think about it, or why he likes it. 

Itchy’s cock is between them, getting harder with each thrust in, until it’s pushing up against Quarters’ stomach. He can feel the head starting to leak a little, leaving a trail against Quarters with each movement. Quarters keeps his hands on Itchy, pinning him to the bed, rolling hips down and into him. He could be going a lot quicker here. Instead, he’s taking his time, enjoying each slow slide in, and the suction that pulls on him as he slides out. It feels so fucking good. Itchy always does, but sometimes they’re going too quick to really appreciate it. 

“Quarters,” Itchy mumbles out between kisses. Quarters doesn’t let him get talky. Sometimes he likes listening to that idiot be a motormouth and say all kinds of nasty, dirty things but right now, he just wants Itchy to shut up and not ask questions. He doesn’t have answers to them, and he doesn’t want to answer them, and he just wants to fuck Itchy without rushing to the end of things. “Quarters, hey-” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, though it’s more of a snarl. Quarters just keeps fucking Itchy, one hand splayed wide over Itchy’s chest to hold him in place. He can feel that fucking asshole’s heart going fast. It always beats quick, like it’s got something to prove or somewhere to be. He fucking hates it so much. All of him’s a little speed demon. If he gets a chance to, he always gets off before Quarters does. This time, he’s going to slow the fuck down and think about what he’s doing instead of going off half-cocked. Quarters just keeps on rolling his hips forward, fucking him into the mattress with deliberately messured thrusts. 

Itchy moans and fuck, Quarters cock twitches inside of him. It’s so hard not to just flip him over and fuck him right where he is. Itchy would love it, and he’d come in no time flat too, his cock grinding away on the bed and leaving a wet spot. But he doesn’t. Quarters is making a point here, about how this idiot should fucking think about what he’s doing. Maybe. Fuck, Quarters isn’t into introspection. He does what he wants, that’s it. He doesn’t sit around thinking about shit or worrying about people dying or any of this other bullshit. It’s fucked up that Itchy’s got him doing this much thinking. 

“Quarters,” Itchy says again, and he gets both hands up, grabbing onto Quarters’ face and pulling him up so they’re looking at each other. Quarters doesn’t stop moving and maybe that’s a mistake because it feels so fucking weird to look Itchy right in the eyes as he keeps sliding inside, filling the mouthy little bastard up. “Fuck, I didn’t know you could even do this. when the fuck did you learn self-control?” 

Quarters just growls and fills Itchy all the way up with a hard thrust, just to hear him moan, before he starts backing out again. Itchy looks up at Quarters with those big fucking eyes of his and it’s so strange seeing him without the usual smirk on his face, halfway through saying some gross shit that’s threatening to kill his boner. He looks so vulnerable like this, his face so open that it makes Quarters drop his own guarded expression. And when he’s looking at Itchy, he can also see all the stitches here and there on him, all the fucking places where Stitch had to put him back together using the effigy. There’s going to be scars on him when this is done. 

Those hands are still on his face and he’s not expecting it when Itchy holds him still and kisses him. Usually when they kiss, it’s fast and hard, but Itchy takes his fucking time here, making them sweet and lazy, the kind of kissing that makes Quarters careful he doesn’t cut Itchy wide open. The little shit keeps pushing his hips back against Quarters, urging him to fuck him deeper and harder, but he just puts a hand on Itchy’s hips and holds him steady as Quarters keeps moving at that slow pace. He’s so fucking hard - they both are - and they’re both stuck at a speed where they won’t get off, not right away anyway. 

“Fuck me-” Itchy tries begging between kisses and he still smells a little like blood, that thick iron scent that curls up inside of Quarters’ nostrils and fills him with worry and rage, even as Itchy’s got his legs wrapped around Quarters’ waist. “Holy shit, just fuck me!” 

Quarters gives Itchy another of those long, deep fucking thrusts, making him squirm while he’s impaled, and then pulling back off just as slow. Why didn’t he do this sooner? (because he hadn’t been worried about losing Itchy) He should have done it, just to make the prick beg. That fucking asshole, he deserved to be the one out of control for once instead of always smugly acting like he had it all down pat when he didn’t, especially when he kept fucking doing dumb shit-

Itchy turns those eyes of his up and latches onto Quarters, moaning out, “I love you.” 

Quarters can’t control himself this time, his hips hitching forward hard against his will and making both him and Itchy groan. He tries to get a hold of himself, but Itchy squeezes his legs tighter, making those cow-eyes up at Quarters, even as he starts grinning like the smug piece of shit he is. “Y-you like that? I love you.” 

“Shut-” He grunts and then there’s another ‘i love you’ out of Itchy and Quarters wants to look away but he can’t, and he wants to stop thrusting but he can’t and he wants to just scream at Itchy but he fucking CAN’T. Quarters just bears down on him, fucking Itchy as hard as he’s wanted to for a while now, until they’re both straining against each other, moaning and panting and grabbing hold of each other’s bodies. 

“Fuck that’s it, that’s it, f-fuck me Quarters, fuck me hard, fuck me like you love me-” Itchy starts saying and it’s too fucking much. Quarters just crams his mouth over Itchy’s and fucks him as hard as he can stand to, hands tight around his waist as they make the bedframe start to shake and crack. He’s fucking Itchy hard enough to leave a bruise when he cries out, and he feels Itchy come on Quarters’ stomach, his cock untouched other than the friction caused by the head rubbing up against Quarters’ belly. 

He’s not much longer afterwards. Quarters feels it building in his gut, all that pressure starting to mount up. It comes to a head when Itchy squeezes tight around Quarters and gets his mouth off of him, looking straight into his eyes and mouthing out another ‘I love you’. He barely gets out “I lo-” out before Quarters’ comes with a hard groan, thrusting even as he comes, eyes falling closed as his mind finally fucking stops thinking and just feels instead. 

It’s the first time all evening he’s felt okay. His forehead’s resting against Itchy and with his eyes closed, all he hears is the sound of them both panting. He wraps a big hand around Itchy’s side, stroking him there to try quiet him. It’s okay now. He feels spent and he’s still inside Itchy and it’s finally okay. 

“Hey,” Itchy says, nosing up against Quarters’ cheek. “Pull out of me, my asshole hurts.” 

Quarters opens his eyes and pulls back, the weird quiet moment broken. He does what Itchy asks and pulls out of him, getting settled on the bed. Itchy turns onto his side and his mouth’s pretty fucked up from Quarters’ beak, but he’s smiling wide. 

“Stop it.” He grunts at Itchy, laying his head back. Now that the tension’s gone and he’s feeling better, he doesn’t feel like indulging Itchy’s bullshit. 

Itchy just prods him a couple of times, leaning over him. The dark shiner on his eye makes him look like he’s stuck mid-wink. “Saaaay it.” 

“Fuck off.” Quarters says, and slaps at Itchy’s hands when the pokes become quick. Of course, he just makes them so quick that he can’t react fast enough to grab them, so he goes for Itchy’s shoulders, giving him a hard shake. “Hey!” 

“Hey.” He just keeps smiling, nudging up against him. Quarters would swear he’s already getting hard again, the little fucking pervert. “C’mon. Say it. Do it for me. Say it. Say it. Quarters-” 

“Don’t get fucking killed!” He snaps at Itchy’s face, clicking his beak right in front of his nose. “You don’t have my permission to do that stupid shit!” 

Itchy just laughs, his eyes softening up again. It makes Quarters’ chest tight, like his heart is all squeezing in a ball. “Love you too, shitlord. Now, give me a handy.”

Quarters shoves Itchy back and listens to him laugh like a jackass. He still feels better though, even though he’s never, ever going to fucking talk about any of this.


End file.
